


Kireji: や

by CheekyBrunette



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Also did you know the yakuza were the first to send aid after the last earthquake in japan?, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, How endearing, In which I cram in as many tropes as possible to make the best gift I possibly can, M/M, like wow, their essentially a "gentle" mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 01:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyBrunette/pseuds/CheekyBrunette
Summary: Oikawa leaned against the bar and checked his watch. He wasn’t wearing an earpiece; but he didn’t need one. All he needed was the recording device taped to his chest and the gun and radio hidden on his hip under his tuxedo jacket.“You know, going undercover only works if we haven’t met.”Oikawa inwardly groaned. Where was his scotch when he needed it? “I’m here for someone else,” Oikawa said, turning around to meet Iwaizumi’s eye. “Don’t flatter yourself thinking I would dress up likethisfor someone likeyou.”





	Kireji: や

**Author's Note:**

> Notes to Recipient:  
> Hello, hello! So I was reading through your prompts, and you had written that you liked Matsuhana/Matsuhanaiwaoi, so I wanted to make something with Matsukawa and Hanamaki happen within the fic. And I was really trying to figure out a spy AU with the four of them, but I was having a hard time making it fit neatly. 
> 
> And I have mostly been writing this while at sea, so I was just in Japan and we had a long talk about yakuza by one of our tour guides, and so I was thinking about the tattoo/flowershop idea, and I was thinking about crime, and I was thinking about Matsuhana and Iwaoi, and so I sort of deviated from making Oikawa a spy to making him an undercover cop? Especially because yakuza and tattoos go hand and hand.
> 
> I hope that is similar enough! I wanted to include a lot of the things you liked, and maybe I got a little overzealous. I hope you like it!

 

  **IWAIZUMI**

Iwaizumi sorted through tulips and roses. For all the funerals he went to, he still had no idea what the appropriate flowers were. Iwaizumi didn’t have to often worry about offending anyone, but insulting the mother of the recently deceased sounded like a bad idea.

Eventually, he settled on a bouquet of red roses (classic), and threw them down on the counter.

He drummed his fingers on the register while he waited for the florist to help him. He seemed busy with something, his nose bent over his books and a pen twirling endlessly in one hand. Iwaizumi read his nametag: _Hanamaki Takahiro._

“Can we hurry this up a little?” he asked as Hanamaki slowly punched numbers into his calculator instead of ringing up his bouquet. Hanamaki looked up, annoyance flashing across his features, before he caught sight of the missing tip of Iwaizumi’s left pinkie finger. Iwaizumi smirked when Hanamaki immediately spurred into action, shuffling papers and sorting out his transaction.

“Yes, sir, sorry. Right away, right away.”

“Thank you,” Iwaizumi said once his total appeared up on the pay screen. He tossed a couple thousand yen into the money tray, and grabbed his bouquet. He scratched beneath his collar at his new tattoo before leaving the flower shop.

He had a funeral to get to, after all.

* * *

 

**HANAMAKI**

Hanamaki leaned against the concrete wall of the police station. He stuffed his hands down his shorts, waiting for Oikawa to come out of the precinct. He straightened out when Oikawa finally stepped outside, his badge and sunglasses glinting in the sunlight.

“You look like a Ken doll,” Hanamaki said.

Oikawa ran a hand through his hair. “If by ‘Ken doll,’ you mean model-esque, then you’re right. Thank you,” he replied airily, falling into step with Hanamaki as they headed towards their favorite lunch place.

Hanamaki rolled his eyes. “I think you’d look more natural jumping out of a birthday cake than strutting down a catwalk, but sure. Model-esque.”

Oikawa went from holding his head high to pouting in a millisecond. “Listen, this is just my uniform, I can’t change it,” he whined. Hanamaki ruffled his hair, and Oikawa squawked.

“Relax, you look fine, I just like teasing you.”

“Well, now I don’t,” Oikawa said, frantically fixing his messy hair. Hanamaki smirked. Oikawa had always been vain, but he hadn’t always been beautiful. When they were kids, Oikawa had carried all his baby fat in his cheeks. When they were in middle school, he had braces and headgear. When he was training to be on the police force, he would come home every day with bruised elbows and knees and mud behind his ears.

Now that he was head detective of the prefecture’s organized crime division, he was back to being as polished and put-together as ever.

Hanamaki pointedly ignored him, but he was nice enough to open the door for Oikawa when they arrived at the noodle shop. Hanamaki’s stomach growled. If he didn’t get some yakisoba fast, he’d eat his own hand.

“I think God was thinking of me when He invented fried tofu,” Oikawa said after they had ordered. He was swirling his water around in his glass like it was fine wine instead of straight from the tap.

Hanamaki blinked at him. “You know, for such a great detective, you’re kind of an idiot.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve made three arrests already this month,” Oikawa said, crossing his arms. Hanamaki raised an eyebrow. To be fair, managing to track down and arrest three yakuza was pretty impressive. Hanamaki’s biggest accomplishment at work this month was putting together forty or so centerpieces and a dozen wedding bouquets in one weekend.

“So I take it work is going well, then?” Hanamaki asked, deciding to be a little more serious. There was only so much teasing Oikawa could take before he got too pouty to put up with.

Oikawa deflated a little. “Well... It was. I used up all my leads hunting down the last few guys, and now I’m at ground zero again,” he said.

Hanamaki hummed. Suddenly, he remembered his customer from earlier that morning. “Hey, actually, I might have something for you,” he said, recalling the man’s missing finger.

Oikawa straightened up. “Really?”

Hanamaki nodded. “Some guy came into the shop earlier with the top of his pinkie finger cut off, and —you know— there’s only so many things that could mean.”

Oikawa dug his notebook out of his pocket, while their waiter dropped off their food at the table. Hanamaki immediately started slurping down noodles while Oikawa struggled to find a pen. “Okay,” he said when he finally fished a pen out of God knows where. It had a little bear charm hanging from the top and shooting stars printed up the side. “Did he have any distinguishing marks? What did he look like?”

“Well.” Hanamaki took a sip of water to try to swallow down his noodles. “He was tall-ish. Dark, short hair. Kind of darker skin? I mean he was Japanese, what else do you want?”

“Long face or round face?” Oikawa asked. “Narrow eyes or wide eyes? Handsome or ugly? Skinny or fat? Give me details.”

“I mean...” Hanamaki sighed. He was never good at remembering people’s faces. “I guess a round face? And I guess kind of narrow eyes. He was handsome, and he wasn’t skinny, more like... built. Like he could lift a car over his head; the guy was jacked.”

“Interesting,” Oikawa muttered.

“But that’s not the most distinguishing thing about him,” Hanamaki said, casually taking another slurp of his noodles. Oikawa looked up sharply. “He had a tattoo. It looked like a big one. And fresh, too; I only noticed because he was scratching it.”

Oikawa’s grip tightened on his pen. “Yeah? What did it look like?”

“I could only see a lotus flower sticking out the top, but it was striking. Really thick lines.”

“Lots of blues and reds?” Oikawa asked, suddenly getting excited.

Hanamaki shrugged. “I mean... I guess.”

“The flower part was baby pink, though, right?”

Hanamaki’s chewing slowed. “How did you know?” he asked.

Oikawa leapt up from the table. “I know the guy,” he said, slamming some money down on the counter. “I’ll see you back at the apartment later. I’ve gotta go,” he said, abandoning his meal and running for the door, his notebook held tight in one hand.

Hanamaki sat up, alarmed. “Wait, but you didn’t finish—“ The shop’s door slammed shut behind Oikawa. “Your lunch,” he finished lamely. He sighed, and pulled Oikawa’s bowl closer to him. There was no sense in wasting free food.

* * *

 

**OIKAWA**

Oikawa slammed his fist down on the counter. “I know you know who I’m talking about. My source says the tat is _fresh_. Baby pink lotus flower on the neck; thick outline. It _has_ to be you.”

“Listen,” Matsukawa said. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. How can you be so sure it’s my work when you haven’t even seen it?” he asked.

“Because I _know_ you,” Oikawa said, “and I know your clients.”

Matsukawa Issei was the tattoo artist for nearly every yakuza Oikawa arrested. His work was easily distinguishable. It was bold: graphic. But while his outlines were thick and weighted, there was a delicacy to his designs that anyone could appreciate. It was art, even if it adorned the backs, necks, and shoulders of some of the most villainous gangsters in Japan.

Oikawa didn’t have to see the tattoo to know it was Matsukawa’s. And if the work was fresh, that meant it probably wasn’t finished. His suspect would have to come in for another appointment soon.

“You don’t know me, and I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Matsukawa said again. He glared at Oikawa, taking a breath like he was about to say something else, when the shop door rang. Matsukawa’s eyes flickered to the side, and before he could school his expression into something more neutral, panic swept over his face. Oikawa turned around.

There, in the doorway, was a man that perfectly matched Hanamaki’s description and then some. He was tall and muscular, like Hanamaki had said. He was also devilishly handsome with a cut jaw and fierce eyes. He was dressed in an all black suit and sunglasses, making his dark skin look light in comparison.

It took Oikawa a second to stop drooling and instead notice his missing left pinkie finger and the lotus tattoo on his neck. “You!” Oikawa suddenly yelped, pointing.

The man took one look at his uniform and immediately turned out of the shop. Oikawa sputtered and ran after him. “Stop right there!” Oikawa said, sprinting to keep up with the man’s quick walk. “You’re under arrest!”

The man turned back at that, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “For what?”

“For evading a police officer!”

“Well, I’m right here,” the man said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Oikawa caught up to him and whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “What do you need, officer?”

“ID,” Oikawa asked, holding out his hands. He couldn’t actually make an arrest now that his suspect was obeying orders, but there was nothing preventing him from asking a couple of questions.

The man fished out his ID card and passed it to Oikawa. The name on the top read _Iwaizumi Hajime._ Oikawa took a note of his address and other personal information. “Is that all, sir?” Iwaizumi asked, obviously unimpressed.

Oikawa arched an eyebrow and passed back his ID. When Iwaizumi grabbed it with his left hand, Oikawa took special note of his pinkie finger. “Ah-ha!” he shouted.

“Ah-ha, what?”

“Ah-ha, I know who you are,” Oikawa said, gesturing to his hand. “You’re a dirty thief.”

“A thief, huh?” Iwaizumi asked. He looked annoyed. “And what exactly have I stolen?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Oikawa asked.

Iwaizumi snorted. “You think just because I have a messed up finger I’m a criminal? As far as you know, I just stuck my pinkie in a paper shredder when I was a kid. And as for the thief thing, yakuza don’t steal. They just... do some convincing.”

“That’s extortion!”

“That’s life,” Iwaizumi argued. “Now, if you would excuse me, I haven’t actually done anything wrong, and we both know you can’t arrest me. Have a nice day.” Iwaizumi brushed past him, and Oikawa stepped back, startled. He watched Iwaizumi walk away, his hands balled up into fists.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes. Detective work was like a game of cat and mouse. Now that Iwaizumi knew someone was onto him, he’d be cautious: hidden. But Oikawa was nothing if not tenacious.

He liked a good chase.

* * *

 

**HANAMAKI**

“ _Hana-chan_ ,” Oikawa groaned from the back of the shop. “Hana-chan, _help._ ”

“God, for the last time, _no_ ,” Hanamaki replied, shouting so Oikawa could hear him. He was busy at the front counter tying up a few corsages that needed to get done before he could go back to the apartment. “I have my own shit to do. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about looking through phone records!”

“You just try to look for numbers that are the same, it’s not hard!”

“So why don’t you do it?” Hanamaki asked, biting off a piece of floral tape from the roll so he didn’t have to let go of his tiny bundle of flowers and ferns. His fingers were tired from the delicate work. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep until Oikawa physically dragged him out of his bed the next morning.

“Because it’s _boring_ ,” Oikawa whined. He stepped out of the back room with ink smeared across his cheek and his glasses crooked on his nose. “I’m so sick of this, Makki. I hate this guy.”

“So you keep saying,” Hanamaki sighed.

When Oikawa complained, he _complained._ For hours. Unrelenting. No breaks. Oikawa had only spoken with Iwaizumi for maybe a grand total of five minutes, but he had seemingly endless reasons to criticize him. Oikawa had complained about every fiber of Iwaizumi’s being, from his cocky attitude to his quote-on-quote “excessive height.”

Hanamaki was going crazy listening to it.

“I mean, seriously, even his phone records are awful. Who calls-“ Oikawa cut himself off, squinting at his paperwork. “-Midnight Cookie five times a week?!”

“Oh, I love Midnight Cookie!” Hanamaki said brightly. “They’re the delivery company who brings you warm cookies 24/7.” When Oikawa glared at him, Hanamaki backtracked. “I mean, yes, only Satanists like soft, warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies. Let’s tie him up and throw him in the ocean. If he survives, he’s probably a witch.”

Oikawa made a whining noise. “Makki.”

Hanamaki broke off another piece of tape with his teeth and wrapped up the last of his corsages. “I bet if we search his body, we’ll find the mark of the devil.”

_“Makki.”_

“You know, you should probably work faster, Oikawa. All this time your wasting complaining, he’s probably using it for... I don’t know, _infanticide.”_

“I shouldn’t have to justify this to you,” Oikawa complained. “He’s yakuza. He’s literally the definition of evil.”

Hanamaki surveyed his work before packing them away into plastic boxes and placing them into the walk-in refrigerator. “No one is the definition of evil,” he said, carefully sliding the flowers on the middle shelf, next to the bouquets. “No one deserves as much crap as you give them, Shitty-kawa.”

“You wouldn’t know! You don’t know how he talked to me. It was like he thought I was _twelve_ , like he doesn’t think I can catch him!”

Hanamaki gave up on listening. Instead he tilted his head up, trying to imagine himself with a pink lotus on his neck. Would it clash with his hair? “Do you think I should get a tattoo?” he asked.

“You’re not even listening to me!” Oikawa yelped.

“No, I’m not,” Hanamaki admitted. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s go home.”

“But-“

“Let’s go home,” Hanamaki said, shoving Oikawa’s hat into his hands. He spanked Oikawa to get him going, and it did the trick. Oikawa jumped and headed to the door.

“He’s just annoying,” Oikawa said. “And he’s so _strong_ , like stupidly strong! No one needs muscles like that. I hate muscle pigs!”

“Oh my god, I _need coffee_ ,” Hanamaki complained, already feeling a headache coming on. What he really needed was sleep, but with Oikawa on a roll, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting any for a long while.

* * *

 

**MATSUKAWA**

The bell at the front of the shop rang, and Matsukawa hardly looked up from his phone. His four o’clock wasn’t due for another thirty minutes, and his game of Piano Tiles was too good to quit. His eyes barely flickered off his phone, but as soon as he looked back at his screen, he registered pink hair and tiny star earrings.

His thumbs fumbled over the tiles.

With “GAME OVER” flashing on his iPhone, Matsukawa slid out of his seat to help his new customer. “Hey.”

“Hey, sorry. Just looking,” Mr. Tall, Light, and Handsome responded with a sheepish smile. He had one of Matuskawa’s coworkers’ —Kunimi’s— portfolios open in front of him. Matsukawa grunted and flipped the book closed. He grabbed his binder from the front of the shop and dropped it on top.

“This one’s mine.”

“Oh. Thanks...” The customer flipped open his book, finding his name written across the top of the first page. “Matsukawa.” He looked up and smiled again. “I’m Hanamaki.”

Matsukawa nodded. “You’re going to get a tattoo?”

Hanamaki laughed self-deprecatingly. “Doubtful,” he admitted. “But... I don’t know, it might be cool to get something one day. I’m sort of into that whole like... pastel punk thing,” he said, his tongue flicking over his lip ring. Matsukawa watched closely and tried to keep his expression passive.

“I’m into that, too.”

Hanamaki frowned, giving his outfit an obvious once over. “Really? You kind of look more...” He didn’t have to finish. Matsukawa knew how he probably looked with ink wrapping up each arm and hair that hadn’t been brushed since his mom still combed it out for him. He was a mess in all black and a stained apron.

“I like it better on other people,” Matsukawa said flatly. Understanding flashed in Hanamaki’s eyes.

“Ah.” He flipped through Matsukawa’s portfolio. “You’re pretty good,” he said offhandedly, but the look in his eyes was anything but casual. “Maybe I’d let you give me a tattoo.”

Matsukawa’s nose twitched. “Yeah?”

Hanamaki smirked. “Maybe. It would depend.”

“On what?”

Hanamaki’s smile only grew, widening into something more knowing, more lewd. “On where you’d put it,” he answered.

A number of places popped into Matsukawa’s brain. If he weren’t at work, he’d list them all out here and now. The look in Hanamaki’s eye said he could have him back at his apartment —clothes on the floor— in the time it took for a taxi to get from point A to point B.

Damn his four o’clock appointment.

“We’ll have to discuss it sometime,” Matsukawa said instead. “Maybe we can make a meeting time, and you can tell me what you have in mind.” _Smooth, Issei, smooth._

Hanamaki’s smile shifted into something more encouraging. “Okay, actually that sounds nice. I really do mean it when I say I’m into the idea of getting ink, you know. Just maybe something little, like a flower or something.”

“That’s what they all say,” Matsukawa said. “And then they end up with a giant tiger back piece with claw marks on their shoulders or a forehead tattoo reading ‘EAT ME.’” he said with an eye roll. He didn’t mean to make Hanamaki laugh, but he did anyway, his cute nose scrunching up. Matsukawa arched an eyebrow. This Hanamaki made quite the impression.

“Yeah, right, okay,” Hanamaki said, pulling out his phone calendar. “But were you serious about making a date? Because I have time.”

“Well, when can you meet?” Matsukawa asked. He was stuck here all day.

“Any time I want. I have my own business,” Hanamaki answered proudly. Matsukawa didn’t fail to notice the way his chest swelled with pride. He bit his lip.

“Is tomorrow too soon?” he asked, leaning up against the counter and scratching his bicep. Hanamaki’s eyes obviously looked over him again, slowly dropping from his face to his toes and right back up.

“It’s definitely not too soon,” Hanamaki answered. “Time?”

“Two?”

“Perfect. I’ll come after my lunch break.”

Matsukawa nodded and nudged his work calendar with his pen, but he didn’t bother writing down Hanamaki’s appointment. He knew he wouldn’t forget it; he didn’t need the reminder. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Hanamaki said, pulling on the hem of his white _UNEDITED_ sweater. He suddenly seemed nervous, and Matsukawa’s heart swelled. “Um, see you tomorrow,” he promised, leaving right as Matsukawa’s four o’clock stepped into the shop, twenty minutes early.

Matsukawa just nodded at him, and his next appointment —Iwaizumi— watched Hanamaki walk away from the shop with a confused look on his face. “I think you just met my florist,” Iwaizumi said, a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“He’s a florist?” Matsukawa asked, his voice as flat as ever, but inside he was swooning.

“Yeah.”

“Is he good?”

“I have no idea,” Iwaizumi answered. He stripped out of his shirt and headed for one of the backrooms. “Are you gonna finish this thing today, or...?” he asked, his back piece having healed over from the last time Matsukawa worked on it. They had missed an appointment after that nosy cop had come to the shop asking questions.

“We’re literally less than halfway done,” Matsukawa said, grabbing the case with his tattoo gun inside and following Iwaizumi to the back of the shop. His shoulders slumped at the thought of being hunched over a piece for the next two hours. He had hardly gotten any sleep last night. “You’ve got another couple weeks, kid.”

Iwaizumi groaned. “What do I have to do to get this thing finished? Pay you more?”

“You’re welcome to pay me more,” Matsukawa said.

“Will it make you work faster?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

 

**IWAIZUMI**

 Iwaizumi opened the door to the flower shop. Jingle bells on the doorknob signaled his arrival, and he flicked one impulsively as he walked into the aisles. He needed another bouquet.

There was an Inagawa-kai clan creeping into the city and the death toll was mounting. The Sumiyoshi-kai syndicate had been here since before World War II. They could easily withstand a turf war or whatever else came their way.

But that didn’t mean the battle would be victimless.

Iwaizumi was checking out some tulips, when the store clerk finally came out from the back, pastel blue paint smudged on his cheek and a somewhat wild look in his eye. “Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s me,” Iwaizumi said, remembering his pink hair and his name: Hanamaki. “What’s with the, uh...” he gestured to the glitter clinging all the way up to Hanamaki’s elbows and the sequins on his shoulders.

“What?” Hanamaki looked down. “Oh... You know. _Weddings_ ,” he said, like that explained everything, but it definitely didn’t. Iwaizumi nodded anyway, just to be polite.

“I see... Actually, I’m here for a less happy occasion.”

Hanamaki twisted one of his earrings. “Ah. A funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, what’s your price point?” Hanamaki asked, scrubbing glitter off of his arms and stepping out from behind the counter. Sequins fell out of his hair.

Iwaizumi shrugged. “Money isn’t really an issue... But time is. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“So something quick, then,” Hanamaki said nodding. He opened up one of the glass refrigerators and pulled out a vase full of flowers that Iwaizumi could only recognize because they were labeled: _Lilies._ “Ferns are free. So is baby’s breath. Do you want a lot of filler or a little?”

Iwaizumi scratched the back of his head. “Um...”

“I’m just going to be creative,” Hanamaki said in lieu of waiting for Iwaizumi’s response. Iwaizumi sighed in relief. He didn’t know anything about flowers; he just wanted to get his bouquet and get out. Meanwhile, Hanamaki seemed content just to chat as he stuffed fern stems and tiny blue flowers into a cheap, glass vase. “So, I think I remember you coming in before. You interrupted me taking stock.”

“I’m a paying customer,” Iwaizumi said. “We’re always right.”

“Maybe, but you made me lose count,” Hanamaki complained. There was a fleck of glitter under his right eye. Iwaizumi crinkled his nose as he looked at it.

“You have something under your-“

“ _There you are!”_

Iwaizumi turned around at the sudden outburst. At first he was confused — _Who was screaming at him?_ — until he recognized the perfectly quaffed hair of the insane police officer who tried to stop him outside of Matsukawa’s the other day.

Hanamaki groaned. “Oikawa, can you take your detective crap elsewhere? I’m trying to make a sale.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said, trying the name out on his tongue.

Oikawa squawked. “That’s _Officer Oikawa_ to you. And what are you doing here? Trying to terrorize my friend for information on me? Trying to scare my friends and family so it gets back to me? What’s your deal?”

“He’s literally just buying flowers,” Hanamaki said. He sounded exhausted, like he had been dealing with this kind of behavior for years instead of the last couple seconds. “For a _funeral._ Cut him some slack.”

Oikawa stilled. “For a funeral?”

Hanamaki nodded, thrusting out a hand towards Iwaizumi as if to say, _“Look at him, stupid, he’s wearing all black and everything!”_

Oikawa’s face screwed up, like he tasted something sour. “Who died?”

“My grandmother,” Iwaizumi said bluntly.

Oikawa’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize, I-“

Iwaizumi smirked, effectively cutting Oikawa off before he could drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. “Kidding. It was only someone from work; don’t worry about it. I just wanted to see the look on your face.”

Oikawa’s jaw dropped, and he turned to Hanamaki. “See?! I told you! He’s _evil!”_

“Evil?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Don’t get him started,” Hanamaki answered with an eye roll. He made the finishing touches on the bouquet and then typed the price into the cash register. “That will be 3,500. Anything else?” he asked.

“No, that’s fine,” Iwaizumi said, depositing the proper amount of yen into the money tray.

“That’s dirty money,” Oikawa complained, stepping behind the counter to join Hanamaki. Iwaizumi had a feeling he wasn’t here to buy flowers. He should be careful around Hanamaki from here on out.

“A little dirt never killed anyone,” Iwaizumi said smoothly, picking up his bouquet and turning on his heel. He left the shop to the sound of Hanamaki’s laughter and Oikawa’s complaining.

* * *

 

**MATSUKAWA**

“Okay, okay,” Hanamaki said, pulling Matsukawa’s attention back to the matter at hand. “So if I wanted to be corny and have a tattoo of a bouquet, how would you do it?”

“Hm.” Matsukawa grabbed Hanamaki’s hand and straightened out his arm. His fingers ghosted over Hanamaki’s inner elbow. “I’d probably put it on your bicep. But I wouldn’t know what flowers to put in it. You’d have to tell me what kind.”

They were sprawled out on Matsukawa’s couch. His apartment was dingy and small, but Hanamaki’s appointment had stretched on and on: way past the end of Matsuakwa’s shift. Usually, skins were in and out. Meetings hardly lasted longer than half an hour. However, Hanamaki was... _distracting,_ and Matsukawa had a hard time keeping the conversation focused on tattoos instead of all the typical, first date, get-to-know-you-type questions.

Not that he minded. Hanamaki was cute. He was also very forward, and Matsukawa didn’t hesitate before inviting him up to his apartment for a cup of tea.

“I’m not sure _I_ would even know what kind,” Hanamaki said, thumbing the lip of his cup. “I like tulips, but I think that might be boring.”

Matsukawa found himself mirroring Hanamaki, his thumb brushing across the skin of his forearm. He dropped his arm. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“I like their meaning, not their aesthetics.”

“Yeah? Well, what do they mean?”

“Perfect love,” Hanamaki answered. He looked up at Matsukawa with bedroom eyes, and Matsukawa clipped his ear. Hanamaki jumped, nearly spilling his tea.

“I’ve known you for five minutes. You can’t pull that kind of stuff with me yet,” he complained.

“I’m just teasing!” Hanamaki yelped, putting his tea down and his hands up to ward of any further attacks, but Matsukawa was already calming down.

“So am I,” he promised. He couldn’t imagine ever actually being mad at Hanamaki. He didn’t know him well yet, but it was clear they had a similar sense of humor. Most of Matsukawa’s conversations were 75% sarcastic bullshit and 25% sexual innuendos, and Hanamaki was one of the rare people who could keep up. That, plus his cute pointed nose and the soft pink of his cheeks, made it hard to imagine ever holding a grudge against him.

Hanamaki was cute and funny. They seemed to ride on the same wavelength; there was a commonality between them that Matsukawa didn’t share with many other people. Their conversation flowed easily, which is why he wasn’t expecting Hanamaki to suddenly jump subjects.

“So... So, what does Iwaizumi do?” Hanamaki asked, picking his teacup back up.

“I’m sorry?” Matsukawa asked slowly. He was exhausted (per usual), and the question had surprised him.

“You know,” Hanamaki said. He waved his hand. “You’re the one who does his tattoos, right? My roommate is always complaining about him. Is he really that bad a guy?”

Matsukawa frowned. Usually, he tried not to bring up his yakuza connections on the first date, if that’s what this even was. He scratched the back of his neck. “Um...”

“My roommate —Oikawa Tooru?— he’s a cop. So like... so like I know about all the extortion or whatever, but like... what does that mean, exactly? For Iwaizumi?”

Matsukawa pressed his lips together. He couldn’t say anything that would incriminate any of his clients, but he also didn’t want to make it seem like he didn’t trust Hanamaki. “I mean, I’m not sure what it means for Iwaizumi. As far as I know, he’s a fine, upstanding citizen,” he started, throwing Hanamaki a pointed look.

“Right, right, of course.”

“ _But_ ,” Matsukawa continued, “I know that most yakuza members own a fair amount of stock in several companies. And while selling and trading those shares earns them a large amount of money, they also are able to coerce companies into paying them off to keep quiet during shareholder meetings.”

“How do you mean?” Hanamaki asked, leaning forward. He seemed interested. Matsukawa was happy to have his full attention, but he felt a little uncomfortable talking about one of his friends like this. He pulled at his collar but kept his expression neutral.

“So, if you have a lot of stock in a business —like a large percentage— you get invited to what’s called a ‘shareholder meeting’ where, I don’t know, they talk about stupid stuff like the future of the company or whatever. The shareholders have a say in whatever the company decides to do because they have so much money invested, so like... if they don’t like the plans they talk about at the meeting, they might pull their money out, which would be bad for business.”

“So yakuza threaten to pull their money out if they don’t get paid off?” Hanamaki asked, jumping ahead.

“Maybe?” Matsukawa said, uncertain. “But since they own a lot of stock, they’re invited to these meetings. These meetings where it’s _very important_ that the company makes a good impression. So the yakuza will tell the CEO of a company, ‘pay me this much money, or I’ll embarrass you at the next shareholder meeting’ and so they have to pay up if they want to have a good presentation,” he explained. “And _everyone_ wants to make a good presentation.”

Hanamaki hummed and took a sip of tea. “So _that’s_ extortion.”

“That’s extortion,” Matsukawa agreed.

“But, like... that’s not so bad _really_ ,” Hanamaki said. “I mean, it’s mean, and it’s illegal, but it’s not like Iwaizumi’s killing anyone, is he?”

“Some yakuza die young,” Matsukawa said, thinking back to a couple clients. “But not all do.”

“So, then, Iwaizumi...?”

“I keep my nose out of it,” Matsukawa said firmly. He couldn’t share that kind of information about his clients. What they said in the chair was strictly confidential. However, he softened a bit at the inquisitive look on Hanamaki’s face. Matsukawa sighed. “However, what I said earlier about Iwaizumi being a fine, upstanding citizen? For the most part, I think that’s true. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Hanamaki nodded, like he had figured as much. “Yeah, that’s the kind of vibe I get from him. I don’t know; he just seems chill.”

“He _is_ chill,” Matsukawa said. “He’s come over here before. We watched the Asian Olympic qualifiers for volleyball this year.”

“No way!” Hanamaki said, easily shifting gears. “Did you watch the China vs. Japan match? That thing gave me hives.”

Matsukawa grunted. “It figures you would like volleyball.”

Hanamaki frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Matsukawa said. “Just... everything about you is kind of perfect.”

Hanamaki glared, but his blush gave him away. “What happened to only knowing each other for five minutes? I thought we can’t pull that kind of stuff yet,” he whined.

“Some things just need to be said,” Matsukawa said sagely, and Hanamaki smacked him upside the ear.

* * *

 

**OIKAWA**

Oikawa kicked at the sidewalk. It had been a long frustrating day of hunting down leads, only to find dead ends. His boss had been breathing down his neck since his last arrest, and he didn’t have anything to show him.

He needed a drink.

The way home from the nearest liquor store passed by a park, and Oikawa paused to watch the kids play. It was wedding season, so Hanamaki probably wouldn’t be home for another hour or so. Oikawa had some time to kill. (He wasn’t low enough to start drinking alone.)

It was chilly for late spring, and all the toddlers’ jackets were zipped up to their chins. Oikawa watched a couple kids pile up on the slide and some others bounce up and down on some of the exercise equipment. He was so tired. His job was exhausting. He felt like he was fighting _all of the time,_ like everything was a battle.

And to be fair, his job _was_ a battle. It was “us” against “them”: the cops against the criminals. As a detective, Oikawa had to fight his way through suspects and witnesses to put the right person away for the right amount of time. No mistakes.

It was stressful, and sometimes, Oikawa found himself boneless on park benches, wishing he didn’t have to work so hard just to make it through the day.

All the overtime probably wasn’t helping either. Oikawa didn’t know when to quit, and even when he was off the clock, Oikawa sometimes found himself hunting down clues or thinking through his most recent case.

Oikawa was startled out of his thoughts by a high-pitched scream.

He jumped to his feet, police training taking him from zoning out on a bench to up and running in a second flat. However, before he could reach the source of the scream, someone else was already there.

“What happened? Did you fall?”

Oikawa couldn’t see his face, but he could see the kid he was talking to. There was a little girl sniffling under the monkey bars. She had a cut on her knee. Oikawa had Band-Aids in his shirt pocket.

“Uh-huh,” she said, peering down at her knee.

“Oh, no, does it hurt?” The man had dark hair and dark skin. His shoulders were broad, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to show off his forearms. Oikawa would be interested in seeing his face, if there weren’t a hurt little kid between them.

The girl sniffled again. “Mhm.”

“Well, you’re being very brave. Do you know where your mommy or daddy is? I can get them for you.”

“Don’t worry, I can help,” Oikawa offered, showing his badge before kneeling down in front of her. He whipped out a Band-Aid and pulled off the paper, noticing the long legs of the man crouching next to him as he did so. “There you go,” he said, taping up her knee and offering her one of the precinct’s stickers. “All better?” he asked.

The little girl just nodded, smushing her already messy hair up and off her face. She stood up clumsily and then turned towards the field where most of the parents were sitting. “Mommy!” she called, running off. Oikawa watched her go.

“It’s weird to see you not screaming.”

Oikawa tensed. He knew that voice. He hadn’t registered it earlier, but—

“Iwaizumi,” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

Iwaizumi stood up, dusting off his knees. Oikawa ignored how nice it was for him to dirty his clean work pants for a hurt kid. He was a criminal. He wasn’t a good person (even if he apparently was good with kids). “I was just passing by,” Iwaizumi said. “I saw her hand miss the next bar and was already running over.”

Oikawa snorted. “You? Helping someone?”

Iwaizumi looked at him, his eyes searching and his smirk condescending. “You know, you don’t know me half as well as you think you do,” he said.

“I know you,” Oikawa said, but Iwaizumi was already walking away. “I know you!” Oikawa shouted after him. However, thinking about Iwaizumi’s gentle voice as he talked to that little girl, how he had called her brave and came running when he saw her fall... It made Oikawa wonder if maybe he didn’t know Iwaizumi half as well as he thought he did.

* * *

 

**HANAMAKI**

Hanamaki twisted a couple Gerber daisies to face front. The thing with Gerber daisies was that they had a direction. They grew on angles, and it took a skilled florist to position them correctly.

But they were such a happy flower, Hanamaki tried to use them as often as possible.

The bell to the front of the shop rang, but Hanamaki didn’t move from his spot in the back. He already knew who it was.

“Oh, pretty,” Oikawa said as he walked into the backroom. He grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the bowl on the center table, picking out a couple stray leaves and flower petals before shoving them into his mouth. He sat up on the counter. “What’s this one for?”

“A funeral.”

“Oh,” Oikawa said, pouting. “Do I know the guy?”

“Probably not the dead guy,” Hanamaki said, filling out the bouquet a little with some regular daisies. Everything was a beautiful, sunshine yellow. “But you know the guy who ordered it.”

“Oh?” Oikawa asked, his nose already buried in the new One Piece manga. He’d been watching the show for years. Hanamaki would know; he had to hear about it all of the time.

“Yeah, it’s Iwaizumi, actually.”

Oikawa snapped his book closed.

“You’re making Iwaizumi _another_ bouquet?” he asked, incredulous.

Hanamaki added some teeny tiny yellow flowers to the bouquet. “Yeah. He actually made an order in advance this time, which was nice.”

“But, Makki, he’s _evil_ ,” Oikawa whined.

Hanamaki turned the vase, eyeing his work from all angles. “You know,” he started, remembering his conversation with Matsukawa, “He doesn’t seem like such a bad guy. Give him a chance.”

Oikawa made a whining noise and punched the counter top. “He’s _yakuza_. He _literally_ is a bad guy. He’s the villain in, like, every show, book, and short novel.”

“Issei says they hang out on the weekends sometimes. He’s gone to Iwaizumi’s family home for barbeques. He has a frail little grandmother that he kisses on the head whenever she smiles, just cause it’s so cute.”

“You’re calling him Issei now?” Oikawa asked, like it was the only thing he had heard. Maybe it was. Hanamaki knew Oikawa’s jealous look, and he was definitely wearing it now.

“Yeah, but I still call you, Tooru,” Hanamaki promised. “We can’t be roommates forever, Oikawa. When’s the last time you went on a date?”

Oikawa blew a stray piece of hair out of his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Makki. It’s not easy to make friends in my line of work.”

“Sure.”

“I deal with assholes.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t an asshole,” Hanamaki said.

Oikawa made a squawking noise. “Stop saying that! He’s a _criminal_.” He annunciated like he was talking to a small child, and Hanamaki cut a ribbon to put around the vase.

“You know, he likes volleyball,” Hanamaki said, tying a bow. He looked up just in time to see Oikawa’s face turning pink. Oikawa still played in the neighborhood league, when his knee wasn’t acting up.

“That doesn’t make him a good person.”

“Sure,” Hanamaki said again.

“I hate him.”

“I know,” Hanamaki said. He really, really _did_ know.

“He’s going to rot in jail, and I’m going to be the one to put him there.”

Hanamaki slammed down his scissors. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I’m meeting Matsukawa for dinner and I still need to change. Don’t wait up tonight.”

Oikawa hopped off the counter and started helping Hanamaki clean up. “Actually, I was going to tell you the same thing. I have a sting tonight, I’m going undercover.”

“Cool, don’t die.”

Oikawa snorted. “I’ll try my best not to.”

* * *

 

**OIKAWA**

Oikawa pulled down his sleeves a little and straightened his spine. Waiters with trays full of champagne passed him by, and men in tuxes and women in gowns let their eyes roll over him as he crossed the room.

He wasn’t here to party, he was here for intel.

His target was a woman suspected of embezzling millions from her financial advising firm. The organized crime department didn’t usually handle matters like these, but Arisa-sama was known to have an interest in younger men, and Oikawa fit the bill better than any of the other detectives on staff.

He straightened his bowtie as he approached the bar.

“Scotch,” he ordered when he caught the bartender’s attention. “Single malt, if you’ve got it.”

Oikawa leaned against the bar and checked his watch. He wasn’t wearing an earpiece; but he didn’t need one. All he needed was the recording device taped to his chest and the gun and radio hidden on his hip under his tuxedo jacket.

“You know, going undercover only works if we haven’t met.”

Oikawa inwardly groaned. Where was his scotch when he needed it? “I’m here for someone else,” Oikawa said, turning around to meet Iwaizumi’s eye. “Don’t flatter yourself thinking I would dress up like _this_ for someone like you.”

Iwaizumi hummed and took a drink from his flute of champagne. He was holding it by the stem, and Oikawa refused to think about how gentle his hands looked holding something so fragile. “You certainly did dress up,” Iwaizumi said. He almost sounded impressed.

Oikawa’s scotch appeared on a napkin in front of him, and he swallowed half of it in one go.

“But, you know, I kind of like the uniform, too.”

Oikawa sputtered. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” he asked. He could feel his face heating up, but he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the conversation. He wasn’t even supposed to be talking to Iwaizumi. He was supposed to be looking for Arisa.

“No, not a compliment,” Iwaizumi said. He made eye contact with Oikawa over the lip of his glass. “Just a statement.”

Oikawa blushed and backed away from the bar. “I have a job to do,” Oikawa said as means of excusing himself. “Try not to interrupt.”

“I make no promises,” Iwaizumi said. Oikawa’s face heated up further, but before he could say anything in response, Iwaizumi had disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

 

**IWAIZUMI**

Iwaizumi said goodbye to a few more business executives, double-checking that they understood the thinly veiled threats he had been dropping all night, before heading to the bar for one last drink. The night was nearly over. If people hadn’t gone home yet, then they were on their way upstairs to one of the hotel’s nicest suites for a one-night stand before going back to work the next day. The ballroom was nearly empty.

So Iwaizumi was surprised when he found his favorite cop hunched over the bar, his eyes glazed over.

“Officer Oikawa, is it?” he asked, sitting on the bar stool next to him. “What are you still doing here?”

“She went home with someone else,” Oikawa whined, burying his face in his elbow. He was doubled over the counter, his legs kicking like a little kid on a chair that was too tall for him. Iwaizumi fought back a smile.

He was so _drunk._

“Who went home with someone else?” Iwaizumi asked, deciding to indulge him.

“My _lady_ ,” Oikawa whined. “I did a bad job. I’m not pretty enough.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “You’re plenty pretty enough,” he promised. No matter the situation, Oikawa would always be pretty enough. Even when Oikawa was yelling at him, Iwaizumi had to give credit where credit was due. He was pretty. Unreasonably, overwhelmingly, and annoyingly pretty.

“You think?” Oikawa asked, pouting up at Iwaizumi. There was snot running down his nose and tears in his eyes.

“Of course,” Iwaizumi agreed, carding Oikawa’s bangs back off his face. His hair was soft. Iwaizumi had expected it to be gelled into place, but it was light and feathery between his fingers. Without thinking, Iwaizumi combed his fingers through his hair again.

Oikawa closed his eyes under his touch. “I think I might be drunk,” he said.

“I think so, too,” Iwaizumi agreed.

“You’re not a safe person to be drunk with. You’re _mean._ ”

“Not to cute police officers,” Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa looked at him hopefully for a minute before wailing and collapsing back onto the bar top. “But I’m not a cute police officer! I’m ugly! She didn’t pick me, and I didn’t do my job. I didn’t even get to use this!” Oikawa said, ripping a recording device out from under his shirt.

Iwaizumi arched an eyebrow and took it from him. He made sure to switch it off before coiling it up and sticking it in Oikawa’s suit jacket pocket. “Whoever didn’t pick you is an idiot,” Iwaizumi promised. “Do you need a ride home?”

“My car is here,” Oikawa whined. A lone waiter with a last tray full of champagne walked by, and Oikawa sat up suddenly, grabbing two glasses and chugging one like it was a can of soda. Iwaizumi stopped him before he could get halfway through the second.

“Okay, that’s it, you’ve had enough.”

“Ugly people are allowed to drink as much as they want.”

Iwaizumi wanted to laugh and coo over Oikawa at the same time. He was different when he wasn’t putting all his energy into hating him. He looked around for someone who might be with Oikawa. “Are you by yourself? Or is there someone else undercover with you?”

“Everyone went home an hour ago,” Oikawa said. His face wrinkled up. “When she left with someone _else._ ” He said it so sadly, Iwaizumi couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“Okay, well did you drive here, then? Why don’t you give me your keys?”

Oikawa looked at him skeptically.

“I’m going to take you home,” Iwaizumi explained.

Oikawa blinked at him before sighing and shoving a valet ticket into his hands. Iwaizumi took it carefully and slipped off his jacket. He draped it over Oikawa’s shoulders.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Iwaizumi said, guiding him off his seat and out the door. He was stumbling as he walked, but Iwaizumi kept a good grip on him. Within a few minutes, the valet had pulled the car around, and Iwaizumi helped Oikawa in on the passenger side. “Your car is disgusting,” Iwaizumi complained. The compact Sudan was at least ten years old and falling apart. There was rust creeping up from the belly of the car and its engine rumbled loudly, even in park.

“Let’s see you afford something better,” Oikawa spat back.

“I definitely can,” Iwaizumi replied. He buckled Oikawa in and gently closed his car door. He got into the driver’s seat. “Do you think you can tell me the way home?” he asked.

“ _Yes_. Take a right out of the parking lot.”

Things were quiet on the way to Oikawa’s place. Iwaizumi knew he wouldn’t be able to catch a train at this hour, but he wasn’t worried about the taxi fare. He wasn’t lying when he said he could afford a nicer car than Oikawa’s. He could afford _several_ cars nicer than Oikawa’s.

After awhile of nothing but Oikawa’s directions and Iwaizumi grunting in acknowledgement, Oikawa spoke up. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, pulling Iwaizumi’s jacket further around his slender shoulders. Iwaizumi didn’t miss the way it swallowed him up. Oikawa was so thin; fragile and small despite his strong shoulders and muscular legs from his police training.

“Because I’m a nice guy,” Iwaizumi said. “To most people.”

“You’re not a nice guy, you’re a bad guy,” Oikawa said, his bottom lip jutting out. Iwaizumi wanted to bite it.

“Say that all you want, but you can’t know what kind of guy I am until you see for yourself,” Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa looked out the window. He pointed to a cheap apartment building. “This is mine.”

Iwaizumi parked the car.

“You’re not coming in,” Oikawa said, but Iwaizumi lead him up to his apartment. “You’re _really_ not coming in,” Oikawa said, but Iwaizumi flipped on the lights and followed him into the living room. “I’m serious, you’re not coming in,” Oikawa said, but he dragged Iwaizumi into his bedroom by his bowtie and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

 

**MATSUKAWA**

Matsukawa didn’t usually run into anyone he knew during his coffee breaks, but he recognized Oikawa from a mile away. Even if he wasn’t constantly stalking his shop to check out his clientele, he was Hanamaki’s roommate.

Matsukawa was making an effort to know everyone in Hanamaki’s life.

“You looked wrecked,” he said, sitting down across the table from Oikawa. He was wearing sunglasses inside, and his uniform was askew on his shoulders.

“I feel wrecked,” Oikawa agreed.

“Good night?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?” Oikawa asked, lifting up his sunglasses to reveal deep purple eye bags. “Hanamaki said you guys were on a date. He also said not to wait up.”

“He may or may not have stayed over,” Matsukawa admitted. He usually didn’t talk about his affairs with other people, but as Hanamaki’s roommate, he figured Oikawa would know all the details of the night within a few hours. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, too.”

“I’m not really seeing anyone,” Oikawa admitted. “I’m- Geez, it’s a little messed up.”

Matsukawa lifted an eyebrow.

Oikawa bit his lip, like he didn’t want to say anything, but Matsukawa could tell he was desperate to talk. He waited patiently. “You know how Hanamaki may or may not have stayed over at your place?” Oikawa finally asked. Matsukawa nodded. “Well, Iwaizumi may or may not have stayed over at _my_ place.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know, kill me.”

“Oh my _god.”_

“It was the biggest mistake of my life,” Oikawa said.

Matsukawa couldn’t wrap his head around it. “ _Oh my god._ ”

“I know, geez, stop saying that!” Oikawa squeaked. “And the worst part is, I didn’t even hate it? Like... like he’s a _monster_. A sexual monster with really great arms, and he was holding me up most of the time, like I didn’t even weigh anything? And I could have sworn he took a bite out of my shoulder, like I thought he might be eating me. I mean _look_ at this,” Oikawa said, pulling at the collar of his uniform to reveal bruises dotted along his neck and collarbone. “He’s an _animal_ , but I _liked_ it.”

“Holy fuck,” Matsukawa said. “I can’t believe this. I’m in disbelief. My fundamental concept of truth has been completely destroyed; I’m existential.”

“Please shut up,” Oikawa said, slinking down further in his chair.

“Have you told Hanamaki yet?”

Oikawa looked ashen. “No.”

“Can _I_ tell Hanamaki?”

“ _No_ ,” Oikawa said. He took a big swig of his coffee. “I mean, why am I even talking to you about this? I hate you.”

“You hate me?” Matsukawa asked, surprised.

Oikawa glared at him before flipping his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “Of course I do. You get in the way of my police investigations, and you don’t deserve Hanamaki’s attention.”

Matsukawa blinked. Hanamaki had told him that Oikawa might be jealous, and it looked like he was right. “Fair enough,” he said easily. Hanamaki had also said Oikawa would warm up to him over time, as long as he agreed with him as often as possible. “Are you okay, though? I feel like you must be kind of,” he made a vague motion, tilting his hand back and forth, “if you’re doing things like sleeping with Iwaizumi.”

“I’m fine, I’m just an idiot,” Oikawa said.

“Hey, you said it, not me,” Matsukawa said, and Oikawa threw a sugar packet at him. In the same moment, the barista called Matsukawa’s name for his coffee order. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave. I have to get back to work.”

“Good riddance,” Oikawa said, hunching over his coffee.

Matsukawa left him at his table and picked up his iced Vietnamese white coffee. He sipped on it through a straw while pulling out his phone to text Iwaizumi about the news. Oikawa had said he wasn’t allowed to tell Hanamaki about it, but he hadn’t said anything about pestering Iwaizumi.

* * *

 

**HANAMAKI**

“Did you hear?” Hanamaki asked, bouncing excitedly into Matsukawa’s tattoo shop. His boyfriend was hunched over a light table, tracing a sketch he had worked out onto some clean paper. However, Matsukawa immediately dropped what he was doing when Hanamaki stepped into the room.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked as vacant and exhausted as ever, but Hanamaki was beginning to be able to tell how Matsukawa was feeling by tiny changes in his expression. Right now, he was a lot excited and a little amused. “Apparently, Oikawa was crying about not being pretty enough.”

Hanamaki laughed. “Oh, man, tell me what else is new.”

Matsukawa hummed and leaned forward so his face buried into Hanamaki’s ribcage. Hanamaki held his head and gave his scalp a couple loving scratches.

“Did you sleep okay last night?” he asked. He also knew a tired Matsukawa when he saw one.

“No, but when do I ever?”

Hanamaki only knew a little bit about Matsukawa’s insomnia, but it still broke his heart to think about Matsukawa tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He wished he could somehow help him, but even when they shared a bed, Matsukawa spent most of the night watching him sleep instead of joining him. It made Hanamaki feel terribly guilty.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, wanting to help in any way possible. Their relationship was still new, tentative. Hanamaki didn’t know how to help Matsukawa when he was tired; he didn’t know what he needed.

“You visiting me is enough,” Matsukawa promised.

Hanamaki snorted. “Corny.”

“Sorry,” Matsukawa apologized. He cleared his throat and changed his tone. “I hate you. Every minute I spend with you is a minute wasted. Get out.”

“That’s better,” Hanamaki said, dropping a kiss to the crown of his head.

* * *

 

**OIKAWA**

Oikawa walked home from work, his eyes watering with exhaustion. He still hadn’t caught up on sleep since his wild night with Iwaizumi. Even the weekend hadn’t helped, and if it was possible, Oikawa still felt like he was hung over from Wednesday night.

He walked down the sidewalk to his building, only to find a brand new, white compact car sitting in the tiny parking lot with a big red bow on the top. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“No,” he said, rushing up to the car. There was a tag on the bow. _To: Oikawa._ “No, no, no!”

He whipped out his phone and dialed. He’d had the number memorized ever since he ran the phone records. Iwaizumi picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“This is _stolen!”_

“Ah, Oikawa. How are you?”

“It’s stolen!” Oikawa repeated, livid. Just looking at the car made his blood boil. He had no idea how Iwaizumi could think this was an appropriate gift. They hadn’t even talked since- since-

“It’s not stolen. I bought it,” Iwaizumi said calmly. Oikawa could picture him at his desk, picking at his cuticles.

“With _stolen money!_ ”

“I’ve never stolen anything.”

“With _extorted money!”_

“Stop screaming,” Iwaizumi said. He sounded annoyed. It was infuriating. Oikawa was the only one with the right to be annoyed. “Look, just take the car. It’s a thank you for the other night.”

“Who thanks someone for a one-night stand?” Oikawa asked, glaring at the car like it had personally wronged him. Just its existence was offensive, and Oikawa had no idea how to get rid of it.

“I guess I do,” Iwaizumi answered.

“Iwaizumi.” Oikawa’s hands balled into fists. “Even if I was considering dating you, this would be an inappropriate gift. Even if we _were_ dating. Even if we were _married_. Even if I had _asked you_ for a car, this wouldn’t be an okay present to surprise someone with. You have to get this thing away from my apartment building.”

“Why?” Iwaizumi asked. “It’s yours.”

Oikawa made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not mine, I don’t _want_ it.”

“Just take it.”

“ _No._ ”

“Well, okay, fine, but I’m not coming to get it,” Iwaizumi said. “Either give it to someone else and keep driving that hunk of rusted metal you call a car, or accept the gift and get over the fact that it came from me, instead of someone you would actually consider dating.”

Oikawa paused. What?

“What?” he repeated out loud.

“Goodbye, Oikawa.”

The line went dead.

* * *

 

**HANAMAKI**

Hanamaki licked at his lip ring, staring off into space. He had come to Matsukawa’s apartment hoping for some couple time, but when he arrived, he found Iwaizumi already there with a crumpled t-shirt and messy hair.

_(“He’s been moping around my place all afternoon,” Matsukawa had whispered when he stepped through the door._

_“Is he okay?”_

_“Yeah, I think he’s just being a baby.”)_

Hanamaki flicked his lip ring back and forth a couple more times, and Matsukawa cleared his throat. “Makki,” he said. His look was pointed, despite his droopy eyes, but Hanamaki couldn’t read it.

“Hm?”

“Don’t play with your lip ring when _I_ can’t play with your lip ring.”

Iwaizumi tensed on the couch next to him. “Sorry, am I intruding?” he asked, like he just realized he was third wheeling. Hanamaki took one look at his slumped shoulders and the sharp C of Matsukawa’s spine. Iwaizumi needed friends, and Matsukawa needed sleep.

“No, of course not,” Hanamaki said, even if it was Matsukawa’s apartment, not his. He pulled Matsukawa up onto the couch from his spot on the floor and into his lap. Matsukawa buried his face into the crook of his neck. “You seem tense, Iwaizumi. What’s going on?”

Hanamaki’s knuckles rubbed up and down Matsukawa’s back as he rested his eyes.

“Your roommate is an idiot,” Iwaizumi answered, but there wasn’t any heat in it. Instead, Iwaizumi was staring blankly down at his hands: like he was holding something important, but his fingers were empty.

“True,” Hanamaki sighed. “But what makes you say it?”

Iwaizumi’s face scrunched up. “He doesn’t like my present,” he started. “And he doesn’t... like _me.”_

“Ah.”

“Unrequited love is the worst,” Matsukawa mumbled into Hanamaki’s collarbone.

“You wouldn’t know anything about it,” Hanamaki said, kissing the tiny torii gate tattoo under Matsukawa’s ear. Matsukawa punched him in the chest.

Iwaizumi looked at them dolefully. “Yeah, thanks guys, this is really helping,” he said, gesturing to Hanamaki’s arms looped around Matsukawa’s shoulders and how heavily Matsukawa was leaning against him. Hanamaki was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Sorry,” Hanamaki apologized, but he didn’t let Matsukawa go. “If it helps, I think Tooru’s emotional state can officially be ranked as a DEFCON 2. He’s been pacing around the apartment for days, muttering to himself.”

“What is he muttering?” Iwaizumi asked.

“ _’I’m not a dirty cop, I’m not a dirty cop, I’m not a dirty cop,’”_ Hanamaki quoted. He dropped another kiss into Matsukawa’s hair. His curls tickled his nose. “I think, maybe, he’s just in denial.”

Iwaizumi frowned. “Denial about sexual attraction?”

“Denial about more than that,” Hanamaki assured him. “He keeps complaining about how you helped that little girl in the park and about how you helped him home. He remembers you calling him pretty. Oikawa’s a sucker for anyone who calls him pretty.”

“Oh,” Iwaizumi said, a hopeful look flashing across his face.

Hanamaki twisted an earing. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. Giving him a car... That was probably a dumb thing to do. You can’t buy people out like that,” he said.

“I wasn’t trying to buy him out, I was just trying to... I don’t know, say I liked him,” Iwaizumi said. He was blushing. Hanamaki smirked. It was hard to imagine this was the same man who pressured business owners for money on a daily basis, who made threats and promises and didn’t feel guilty.

“Then maybe tell him that,” Hanamaki said gently. “I think if you approach him casually, he’ll listen.”

Iwaizumi looked uncertain, but he set his jaw in determination. “Okay.”

“You know, nothing in this relationship is going to be easy,” Matsukawa piped up suddenly. “I don’t know Oikawa that well, but even _I_ know you have to fight him for every inch.”

Iwaizumi blinked. “I mean, yeah, but I like that,” he said, and Hanamaki rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god, then _go_ to him. You two are perfect for each other,” he said, gagging at Iwaizumi’s doe eyes.

* * *

 

**OIKAWA**

Oikawa glared at his computer screen. Usually, the precinct was a quiet place: everyone had their nose down in their work. However, today it was loud and bustling as the police dealt with the aftermath of a bank robbery. Recently released hostages were out in the hallway, crying and making noise.

It was already hard enough to focus on Iwaizumi’s bank statements for the past five years; he didn’t need twenty traumatized hostages making it worse.

“Hey.”

Oikawa leapt five feet in the year. “Why are you always surprising me?” Oikawa asked, spinning in his desk chair.

Iwaizumi didn’t answer him, just squinted at his computer screen. “Are those my financial records?”

Oikawa bristled. “Listen, you can’t just-“

“Sorry, sorry,” Iwaizumi said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’m not trying to intrude on your space, or whatever, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m at _work_ ,” Oikawa said. If his boss realized he was talking so casually with a suspected gang member, he would be fired. His job was to lock up criminals. He just needed evidence if he was going to arrest Iwaizumi.

“Please?”

Oikawa blinked. He stared at the corner of Iwaizumi’s sharp jaw. He absorbed Iwaizumi’s big brown eyes, staring at him miserably. He sighed. “Fine. But not here.”

He grabbed his badge and his handcuffs and lead Iwaizumi out of the building. It wasn’t until they were in the park across the street that he turned back to look at him.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, pausing in the shade of a flowering cherry blossom tree. Hanamaki would like the color.

“Us.” A wind blew petals from the trees. Oikawa’s eyes widened as flowers fell between their faces.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Look,” Iwaizumi said, begging for his attention. Oikawa gave it to him. “I didn’t mean anything bad by the car. I meant it as an honest thank you. For giving me a chance, you know? You were drunk, and maybe you feel like I was just taking advantage of you, but slumped over at the bar like that... you were really cute. Pretty, I promise.”

Oikawa felt his chest blush. Heat crept up his neck. Iwaizumi looked so earnest, and Oikawa squirmed in his spot, not sure if he should stay mad or let his guard down. “You weren’t taking advantage of me,” he eventually admitted. “I... really wanted you.”

“Okay,” Iwaizumi said. “Okay, so... so if I take the car back —or you can keep it if you want, I don’t care— then can we maybe try making this work?”

Oikawa felt like his head was spinning. This was the last thing he had expected from Iwaizumi: an apology and a confession. He hadn’t thought he meant anything to Iwaizumi at all, and now here he was, asking for another chance. “Why me?” Oikawa asked. “All I do is yell at you.”

“You're feisty,” Iwaizumi said.

“I’m a handful.”

“I like that,” Iwaizumi said. “But also, you’re quick. And you’re cute, and your _really_ attractive, and when you’re not too busy yelling, you’re really, _really_ nice. Like you were so gentle with that little girl’s knee, and you were so adorable at that party. But also really sexy in your tux and in your bedroom, and I don’t know. I just like you. You’re snarky, but you’re fun.”

“You’re fun, too,” Oikawa mumbled under his breath. He didn’t bother to try to tell Iwaizumi how attractive he thought he was. He already drooled over him enough.

“So do you think we could try?” Iwaizumi asked hopefully.

Oikawa sighed. “It’s complicated,” he said, thinking about his job.

“But it’s worth it, yeah?” Iwaizumi asked. Oikawa was hesitant to answer. Iwaizumi reached out to grab his hand, shaking it a little bit. “Hanamaki says you’ve been talking about me.”

“Fine,” Oikawa said. “I’m begrudgingly — _begrudgingly_ — saying yes. But only if you wait to give me a car for, like, my birthday or something.”

“And when is that?” Iwaizumi asked, eyes sparkling.

“Two months.”

Iwaizumi laughed. “Fair enough,” he agreed. He threaded their fingers together properly, and once again, cherry blossoms fell from the sky, getting stuck in Iwaizumi’s hair and lying on his shoulders. Oikawa ignored his heart fluttering. “Are you free this weekend?”

Oikawa sighed, like it pained him. “I suppose I could make some time.”

“You suppose,” Iwaizumi repeated, leaning in. Oikawa opened his mouth to respond, but Iwaizumi took it as an invitation, slipping a hand up to his cheek and pulling him in for a kiss. Oikawa felt his knees wobble, and he tightened his grip on Iwaizumi’s hand.

Iwaizumi pulled away, and Oikawa blinked up at him: dazed. “I suppose,” he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper. Iwaizumi kissed his forehead.

“You’re cute.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

Iwaizumi grinned at him. “Don’t worry too much,” he said. “We’ll make this work.”

“I’m sure,” Oikawa snorted, but he wasn’t sure how much he believed it.

* * *

 

 **IWAIZUMI  
** BONUS SCENE

“So do we have an understanding?” Iwaizumi asked, shaking hands with Hiroshi Ishii, the CEO of major publishing firm.

Hiroshi’s handshake was strong, but Iwaizumi could hear him choke down a swallow. “Yes, I believe we do.”

Iwaizumi smiled. “Then I’m sure this relationship will be prosperous for the both of us,” he promised, just as Oikawa walked up to join their conversation. Oikawa slipped his arm through Iwaizumi’s.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I ?” he asked, glancing between Iwaizumi and Hiroshi.

“Of course not, darling,” Iwaizumi said, stepping between Hiroshi and Oikawa as a mediator. “Ishi-sama, allow me to introduce you my husband, Oikawa Tooru.”

Oikawa waved, his wedding ring sparkling.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Hiroshi said politely. The longer he stayed in Iwaizumi’s presence, the more sweat pooled at the collar of his tuxedo shirt. “But I was just leaving. Enjoy the party.”

Oikawa hummed. He watched Hiroshi leave over the rim of his champagne glass. “I’m not a dirty cop,” he said.

Iwaizumi smiled. “Of course not.”

“I’m not ignoring anything because nothing happened.”

“Naturally. Ishii is just the CEO of a company I have stock at. We were just talking about the recent market crash,” Iwaizumi said. He leaned in to kiss Oikawa’s cheek.

“I’m not a dirty cop,” Oikawa repeated, pouting cutely. Iwaizumi loved when he stuck his bottom lip out; it still made him want to bite it.

“You transferred to homicide anyway, babe. You don’t have to worry about it anymore,” he reminded his husband, gently sweeping his bangs off his forehead.

“Right. Because I’m not a dirty cop.”

“You’re not a dirty cop,” Iwaizumi reassured him. Oikawa was cookie cutter clean: the picture of an upstanding citizen. He made Iwaizumi file his taxes; he used crosswalks, he left food out on the balcony for wandering cats, he never passed the speed limit. He was perfect. He was _adorable._ Iwaizumi squeezed his hand. “I think I’ve talked to everyone I need to talk to. We could probably head home early, if you wanted to,” he offered.

“Next weekend, we’re hanging out with Makki and Mattsun. I’m not going to another one of these parties with you for at least a month,” Oikawa said, already making his way towards the door. His walk was effortlessly graceful, as if he hadn’t been taking advantage of the free champagne all night.

“These parties aren’t all bad,” Iwaizumi argued.

“And why’s that?”

“I get to see you all dressed up.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes. “You’re a flirt.”

“And you’re a tease,” Iwaizumi said, a hand around his husband’s waist as they waited for the valet to fetch their car. When it came around, Iwaizumi took over and opened Oikawa’s car door before the valet could get around to the passenger side. He ducked down to buckle Oikawa’s seatbelt.

“You know, this kind of reminds me of-“

“Same,” Iwaizumi agreed, clicking in the seatbelt and pressing a kissing a quick kiss to Oikawa’s nose. His face scrunched up cutely, and Iwaizumi kissed him again for good measure. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

“Yeah, well, you earned it,” Oikawa promised.

**Author's Note:**

> So I did this fic exchange in hopes of growing as an author, and this was definitely my first time writing something like this. I'm really sorry if it didn't turn out well! Especially to you, Jamie, I'm just doing my best for you, I'm worried it wasn't exactly what you were hoping for, and for that I am sorry!


End file.
